


Experiments in Trust

by oleanderhoney



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Experiments!, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Typical Reckless Sherlock, possible pre-slash - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:51:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oleanderhoney/pseuds/oleanderhoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I can glance at a dead body and instantly know their life, and where they work, and who their lover is, but with you I can’t tell what it means when you look at me and your eyes are so dark they look brown even though they are blue. Or what it means when your hand starts to shake at certain crime scenes, and yet can be as solid as iron after you kill a man. Or why your shoulders tense and the corners of your mouth turn down when Donovan calls me ‘freak.’ And for God’s sake why you say the things that you do about …me..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Experiments in Trust

**Author's Note:**

> Yes. Ahem. I am relatively new at writing fan fic. This is my first attempt. Any feedback is welcome!

The first time it happened, John didn’t chalk it up to much, and actually found it quite amusing at first. 

He had been sitting in his armchair brushing up on a medical journal, when the dryness of the words finally caught up to the dry state of his mouth. He figured it was a good time as any to take a break and make some tea. 

Sherlock, as usual, was perched on the stool like a barn owl in the kitchen staring into his microscope. He had been for at least two hours. They had just finished up a case that had barely been a six, and the second they got in he set to work, not wanting the boredom to creep in any sooner than it had to. He looked positively wretched, however, and kept rubbing his eyes in agitation. Hopefully Lestrade would have a murder soon. The thought of how wrong it was to wish for such a thing didn't faze him anymore; given he knew how much of a nightmare Sherlock could be without stimulation. He seemed to be occupying himself, though, but John could feel a prickle at the back of his neck and he wondered when the storm would make its appearance. This must be how animals felt on the edge of a natural disaster.

John sighed and flicked the stove top on. There was only one thing he could do for now and that was make some tea. He was about to offer to make Sherlock a cup as well, but the frigid look warranted his absolute silence as if the thought of him speaking would be physically painful to endure. So, he just took it upon himself to go ahead and make two cups anyway.

He had just turned around from the stove in time to see Sherlock tip over sideways, and crash to the floor, his head catching the edge of the table on the way down.

“Jesus! Sherlock!” John rushed over to kneel beside his friend, and lightly tapped his pale cheek. “Wake up. Sherlock? Can you hear me?”

A pair of icy blue eyes flashed open, and regarded John with a disoriented look. Then clarity, as he snapped his brows together in his signature Look of Impatience. 

“Of course I can hear you, John. I fell asleep for a moment. That hardly causes a person to go deaf.” Sherlock struggled to a standing position, and scrabbled around for a pen and a notebook. John noticed that he cut his left temple on the way down, and a small ribbon of scarlet began to trace his jaw.

“You’re bleeding. Did you know?” 

Sherlock ignored him, and instead started jotting something down muttering about _inconclusive,_ and _disappointing._ John decided to ignore him back, and grabbed him by the wrist, hauling him to the bathroom so he could get patched up.

“For heaven’s sake, John. It’s just a minor cut.”

“Sit down you daft git,” he said and pushed him down on the toilet seat. He shook his head and tried not to smirk as he rummaged around for the first aid kit. It wasn’t too serious for him to require his med bag, and he sat himself on the edge of the tub to get a better look. “I know you consider your body as a – whatever you call it – but you shouldn’t ignore it when it’s telling you it needs something. Y’know. Food? _Sleep?”_

“Transport,” Sherlock grumbled then winced as John swabbed the cut with rubbing alcohol. “And it would have eluded the point of my experiment in sleep deprivation.”

John paused in his ministrations. “Hang on. You did this for an experiment? How long has it been since you slept?” Sherlock didn’t answer, and instead pointedly glared at the floor tiles. _“Sherlock?”_

“Seven, maybe eight days? It’s disappointing, really. I conjectured I could go longer.”

“Seven –? _Christ_ you went over a week without sleep? You’re an idiot. Do you realise how bad that is for you? For your brain? Surely you of all people would have issues with that?”

“I was well aware when starting the procedure of the risks involving my cognitive functions,” he said dismissively. “It’s Lestrade’s fault he hasn’t given me anything worthy to fill my time.”

“Jesus. I can’t believe I didn’t even notice. Good thing we don’t have a car. You always so insistent on driving could’ve bloody well killed us. It’s over now, yeah? Did you get your bloody results?”

“You really shouldn’t curse so much, John, especially in one breath. It’s a poor use of the English language. And don’t be ridiculous. There’s still more data to gather.”

John’s back stiffened as he tried to force his temper away. Surely the smartest man in London couldn’t be this stupid. “You know the longest a person’s ever gone without sleep is eleven days, right?”

“Mm. Records are meant to be broken.”

“No, _dammit,_ no. I won’t let you do this to yourself,” he pressed the swab back against the cut with maybe a little too much pressure, effectively cutting off whatever snappish retort Sherlock had in the making.

“What do you care?” he said instead with a snarl.

“Just…shut up. All right?” John’s teeth clenched as he fought the serious urge to punch the man. Maybe if he punched him hard enough he would finally get some sleep. Although carrying his lanky ‘transport’ to his room might pose a problem.

He was too busy wrapping gauze around Sherlock’s head and thinking through the mechanics of dragging all six-foot-something of him – conscious or not – back to his bed he didn’t notice he was being intensely scrutinised.

“What?” he said startled out of his anger for a moment. When Sherlock didn’t answer, he glared back in challenge. Sherlock leaned in even closer and his eyes darted over his face searching for something. Finally John had had enough and pushed him away. “God, Sherlock. _Personal space._ Honestly.” He was about to get up when Sherlock grabbed his wrist. 

“You’re angry. Why? You’ve never had this much concern with one of my experiments before. I’ve been trying to do as you asked and tone it down with the ones that require corrosives and fire, and since you so _adamantly objected_ to the eyeballs, the microwave has been solely reserved for food. All else aside, this is one of my quieter endeavors. _What_ is your problem?” 

“My _problem_ is that as a licensed medical professional you’re experimenting on yourself in ways that are extremely, very not good. Going a couple days is one thing, but a week? That plus lack of food – don’t give me that look I know you haven’t been eating properly – your organs will shut down. And for what? Because you’re bored?” John got to his feet and shoved the first aid kit back under the sink. 

“It’s for _science,_ John.” Rolling his eyes Sherlock stood up as well, and began to wildly gesticulate his point. “What if I am taken against my will and subjected to sleep torture and starvation? I need to know how long I have before my mental processes become impaired beyond my being able to engineer an escape. Besides, you’re not my doctor, so I ask again, _why_ do you _care?”_

They glared at each other for another tense moment. When neither one of them balked, John shifted his stance slightly. Had Sherlock been on par, he would have noticed what the other man was up to. By the time the consulting detective registered the determined look in his eye it was too late, and John lunged and grabbed his arm, wrenching it behind his back firmly, but not painfully. Just enough so he could steer the lunatic back to his bedroom. He pushed him into it roughly and barred the door way with his body. He wasn’t a tall man, but he could be pretty imposing when he wanted to.

“I _care,_ ” he spat, “because I’m your only friend, and you’re pretty much mine, and I don’t like when people hurt my friends. Regardless of _who_ is doing the hurting. Now, you’re going to get in that bed and sleep for at least ten hours or I swear to God, Sherlock, I _will_ sit on you.”

“You wouldn’t,” he sneered.

“Don’t. Try. Me.”

Sherlock assessed him, and then without even getting undressed, whipped the bedclothes back and clamored underneath. He wrestled with them for a moment, never having taken off his shoes, before dramatically curling on his side with a huff, his back to John.

“Happy? Drill Sergeant?” He popped the _t_ at the end of the word as if it was a dart.

“Yes,” he said smugly.

“Close the –”

John slammed the door before Sherlock could finish his sentence.

  


*

The second time it happened, John was considerably less amused.

“It was an accident. I simply…miscalculated.”

“You pointed a _taser_ at yourself and pulled the damn trigger. How is that an accident?” he yelled as he set about extracting the barbs from his chest with tweezers. “It says _Police Grade M26_ on the side. Why did it not cross your mind that this was a horrible idea? Lestrade is going to be furious when he finds out you pinched it from lock up.”

“ _Borrowed._ How was I supposed to know if the distance was fifteen or twenty five feet unless I tried it? Now in the future I know just how far I need to stand in order to avoid my assailant if he happens to be an ex-cop like our last case.” Sherlock said noncommittally. He batted John’s hands away, the other barb still in his chest, and released the taser from the vice grip that was holding it upright. “I could have sworn our lounge was at least twenty five feet.”

“You could have looked up the model number on this lovely thing called the internet,” John said snatching the gun from his hands and slamming is back down on the table.

“Couldn’t. You’ve been bringing your laptop to work,” Sherlock sniffed.

“What about yours?”

“It’s been…decommissioned,” he said but didn’t elaborate further.

“Oh for the love of – you couldn’t have waited _fifteen_ minutes until I got back? Then maybe I wouldn’t have found you on the floor in a sodden twitchy mess!”

“No. It wouldn’t have been conducive to my findings. And really? Twitchy? I was not _twitchy._ Who uses that as an adjective of choice? You really need to be more creative, John. I suggest a thesaurus.”

“Not the point, Sherlock,” he said, and resumed his work on the second barb in fuming silence.

After this, John didn’t take any more chances, bringing his med bag home with him every day and stocking it with anything and everything he might need for the foreseeable future. He was surprised that Sherlock made it through the month without needing a hospital. After one particularly nasty set of stitches, John was at his mental breaking point and was trying to seriously refrain from throttling the man. 

Finally, he received a bit of respite when an interesting client caught Sherlock’s attention for a while. He was relieved for the time being, and yet on edge for the next time, because with Sherlock Holmes there was usually almost always a next time.

  


*

“John? J-John?”

Ever the ex-soldier, John went from zero to sixty in seconds flat, and he scrambled for the Sig he kept in the bed-side table. His panic subsided however, the moment he recognised the tall figure in the moonlight as his insane flatmate.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” he said, leaning back against the pillows. “Remember what I told you about prowling about when I’m trying to sleep? I could very well have shot you. What is it? Lestrade? A case?” Expecting to be dragged out of bed any moment by the madman, he closed his eyes wanting to prolong the darkness just a little more. Instead he heard a sharp intake of breath. “Sherlock?” John sat up and flicked on the table lamp. 

Something was very wrong. 

Sherlock stood there eyes wild and shoulders trembling, his dark curls matted to his forehead with sweat. In the light he had a sickly pallor to his skin, and a hand clutched his chest as if in pain.

“I-I made a mistake, John. A rather indecent one on my behalf, actually. Foolish…”

“What did you do?”

He buckled just then, and John was flying over the bed in a flash. When Sherlock collapsed, he just managed to catch his friend’s head before it hit the hard wood floor. John shook him a little, but he didn’t wake up. He pressed his fingers to the pulse against his neck, and took the time with his watch. It was thready and slow.

“Sherlock, you need to wake up. I can’t know how to help you if you don’t tell me what you did.” John shook him harder. It wasn’t working. Propping a pillow under Sherlock’s legs to increase blood flow, he ran down stairs and grabbed a cool wet flannel and a glass of water. Returning to his side, he unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt, and pressed the flannel against his neck and over his chest. The coolness had the desired effect, and Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open after a few minutes. His brow creased, and for a moment he looked impossibly young. 

“John–?”

“Can you sit up?” He nodded, and John helped him sit against the bedside table. He handed him the glass of water, and Sherlock brought it to his bleached white lips. “What happened?”

“Experiment,” Sherlock said. His words were slightly slurred. “It went wrong. I thought I handled it. My failsafe…well failed I suppose.” He chuckled weakly at this, but it wasn’t devoid of mirth like it should have been. Leave it to a ‘high functioning sociopath’ to laugh when things went utterly to hell.

 _“Sherlock,”_ John said trying to keep his voice calm even though he could tell Sherlock’s blood pressure was continuing to plummet.

“It was oleander extract,” the other man said at once, his head snapping up reading the urgency in John’s voice. “From our last case. The one with the wife who killed her husband with honey she pollinated in her back yard. Well, honey and a bit of antifreeze to finish him off. Genius, really, toxic honey. I wanted to test it…its effects…and…”

“You _poisoned_ yourself?” This was not good. Oh very very not good. Oleander? That was a flower? He didn’t know anything about it. He leapt to his feet and dragged his med bag out from the top of his closet, rummaging around desperately in its depths.

“I already took some ipecac, John. I think I got it all out, but…” his voice trailed off again, and when John looked up, Sherlock’s dark head was bowed toward his chest, and he was slouching sideways. 

Finally, John found the small bottle of activated charcoal. It was just going to have to do, and he rushed back over. It was a good thing Sherlock got the toxin out of his stomach, but he didn’t know how long it had been lingering in his system before the idiot decided to use the ipecac. Long enough for him to be bradycardic, apparently. And vomiting – probably violently with nothing in his stomach as usual – no doubt caused his syncope. John was just grateful he didn’t faint on the stairs on the way to his bedroom. Because a bloody concussion would sure be a cake topper.

He got Sherlock to come to again by placing the cool rag on the back of his neck. 

“Drink this,” John said, and he complied with out comment. “Keep it down, all right?”

He stood up and pulled back the bedclothes on the unused right side of his bed, and arranged the pillows at the foot. He hauled Sherlock up and sat him on the edge, and then started taking off his shoes. (Honestly, why did he always have his shoes on? He was in his own bloody house for chrissakes.) John half expected him to protest or give a cutting remark, but he was uncharacteristically quiet and cooperative. It was alarming.

Gently, John made him lay down, and propped his feet up over his heart again. He drew the duvet up to his friend’s chin, and walked around to the other side. At first he made to turn off the lamp, but then thought better of it and left it on. 

“Where are you sleeping?” Sherlock asked, his voice hoarse. 

“I’m not,” he said, sidling up against the headboard. “You need to be monitored. If your heart rate doesn’t improve I’m going to have to take you to hospital.”

“Mm,” Sherlock said, his lips turning down in disgust. John could tell he was tired, but the stubborn git refused to give in. 

“You should sleep. God knows you need it,” he said and gauged the pulse in Sherlock’s wrist. It was still sluggish, but a little stronger. He sighed heavily, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You’re angry.” It wasn’t a question.

“No, no. I’m not. Go to sleep, Sherlock.”

“Yes you are.”

“Will you drop it?” John lashed. The built up tension in his neck was searing, and he just wanted to wait out the remainder of the night in silence. But of course, the insufferable prat wouldn’t drop it and even with John purposefully staring at the wall, he could feel those sharp eyes gouging into him.

“Interesting,” was all he said however. And John was going to make it a point to just leave it at that. But when the staring continued he finally gave in.

“Okay. I’ll bite. What’s so bloody interesting at three in the morning?”

“The results of my experiment. I still don’t know what to make of them.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to try and _repeat_ this to get a better result, because I really can’t do this again.”

A low rumble of laughter came from deep within Sherlock’s chest. “No I’m quite done with the oleander.”

“Good,” he snapped. Then; “Wait, what are you talking about? Oh God is there something downstairs I should know about? Exploded sheep’s lungs in the oven?”

More laughter. “No nothing like that.”

“Then what?” 

“You.” His lip curled in a smile.

“I’m sorry what?” 

John assessed him, comprehension slowly dawning on him. This, _this,_ the past month where Sherlock had seemingly been hell-bent on ending up in the morgue… _was all for a bloody experiment?_ And simple John along for the ride. A variable. For what? He was aware that Sherlock constantly pushed himself almost to breaking, but for him to abuse John’s talents to further this endeavour – after everything they’d been through – _god dammit._

“I suppose I’m your other failsafe then? Your back-up so you can do as you please?”

“Well you being a doctor does have its advantages.” 

“Jesus bloody fucking Christ, Sherlock,” John said, and wrestled his way off the bed. 

“Well done, John. That’s probably the most colourful use of expletives I’ve heard from you yet. Wait, where are you going?”

John was jamming his arms through his dressing gown, and was half way to the door before he spun around on his heel.

“Away. From you. From my completely mental flatmate before I need to call him an ambulance.” And before Sherlock could protest, he stormed out and slammed the bedroom door behind him. A moment later he heard a loud thud and he knew said ‘mental flatmate’ was trying to follow him. 

Let him fall down the bloody stairs. After all if locum work _obviously_ wasn’t keeping him occupied enough, he always had Sherlock to practise on. Keep from getting rusty, right? The fact that it was half three in the morning was the only thing that kept John from leaving the flat entirely. He could always kip on Sarah’s sofa, but he didn’t want to disturb her. She would oblige though, if he really needed it. And – shit – of course he couldn’t leave Sherlock in case of – shit, shit, _shit._

He settled with pacing the sitting room like a feral animal. Every so often he glanced up the stairs to his room, expecting to see Sherlock trying to make his way down, but it was quiet. He checked his watch. He decided he would give himself some time to unwind before he had to check on Sherlock again. In the mean time, tea sounded appropriate. When he went into the kitchen, however, his appetite for tea vanished when he got a whiff of a pungent liquid fermenting on the counter. He grabbed the flask and hurled it in the sink, satisfied when it shattered against the porcelain…

After an hour he grudgingly made his way back up stairs. He was still furious, but he no longer felt like he wanted to strangle his friend.

When he opened the door, Sherlock was laying on the ground perpendicular to the bed with his feet propped on the side, his head tipped back as far as it could go. He tried to look superior still even through he was glaring at John upside down. He looked like a bloody house cat. It was ridiculous, and he could feel his temper ebb slightly.

“You broke my best Erlenmeyer.” 

John ignored this. Instead his lips twisted into a cruel smirk. “You got up too fast didn’t you?”

“Mm. It would seem so,” he said with an air of boredom.

John rolled his eyes, and hefted Sherlock up, practically tossing him back on the bed. He didn’t faint again at the sudden rush of being upright, but he was still rather boneless and slack. John figured he could replace the pillows back behind his head, though, and propped him against the headboard so he could look at him from where he decided to stand. He shifted his weight, and crossed his arms.

“Okay, just because I’m a doctor, does not mean you can do whatever you want to your ‘transport’ without consideration and expect me to put you back together again. Knowing your limits is one thing, Sherlock, but trying to see exactly what they are for _‘science’_ is unnecessary and just plain stupid. Out of all the experiments you’ve ever thought of – Jesus I never thought I would wish for more body parts in the fridge.” 

He paused and ran his hand over his face. “I’m not going to let you take advantage. I’m not going to let you kill yourself just because you think all that matters is knowledge. You matter, Sherlock. That’s the important thing, and apparently you need someone to remind you of that. Which is ridiculous because one look at you and anyone would think the Earth revolves around you and not the bloody sun.”

There was a beat of silence. A look that John couldn’t quite name flashed across the other man’s face only to be replaced by that cool mask once more.

“As usual, John, you are completely missing the point.” John couldn’t be arsed to respond to this, so Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued. “As I’ve said before, my other subsequent experiment is on _you._ Not me. Pay attention next time.”

John was floored at the audacity. _What the actual fucking hell?_ He balled his fists tightly against his sides, white anger roiling in his stomach, and took to pacing again to keep from launching himself at the bastard. It was a good thing the footboard was separating them at the moment.

“Explain,” was all John eventually managed through his clenched jaw.

Sherlock tilted his head, and regarded him as if he were something interesting in a petri-dish. His bright eyes absorbed everything within seconds before he began to talk.

“You’re utterly predictable in every way, John Watson. Except when it comes to your emotions. You resort to anger over the most ridiculous things, and after my sleep study, your reaction piqued my interest. Then when I tried to rouse it again – you remember the opossum tail –”

“– in my RAMC mug, how could I forget?” John closed his eyes trying to temper the boiling pot of his fury.

“Precisely,” Sherlock grinned, clasping his hands across his stomach. “You were angry for sure, but it wasn’t the same. I needed more data.”

“You were what – gauging me? Trying to get me to snap? So the taser? And the roof? And the time you sliced your wrist open while fiddling with our blender? And –”

“Yes, yes. All of that.” he waved his hand dismissively. “Although if it’s any consolation, injuring myself wasn’t something I initially set out to do on those occasions. Like I said, yours was a subsequent experiment. I simply took fewer precautions when conducting my other research, and observed the outcomes.”

“And the poison?” John tried to keep his voice firm, but it broke on the end.

Sherlock’s expression softened a little. His voice was quiet when he answered. “No. That was a mistake. I didn’t intend for you to – that wasn’t supposed to happen.”

John’s eyes snapped to Sherlock’s. He sounded almost…remorseful. He shook his head to clear it some. There was no way he heard right. Sherlock never regretted anything, and answered to absolutely no one. But he stopped short when he remembered the fear, _genuine fear,_ on his face when he stood in the middle of the room grasping at the pain in his chest. And – no, _no._ This was still unacceptable.

“Sherlock. You promised you wouldn’t experiment on me again without my permission after what happened at Baskerville.”

At this, Sherlock inhaled sharply. He sat up further, and tucked his knees up to his chin. A hard furrow creased his brow.

“Yes…I did promise that didn’t I?” He sat like that for a few long moments, and John couldn’t think of anything else to say. Exhaustion was finally taking its toll and it leeched into his bones, making his head feel heavy. 

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he unfolded himself and made to get up. John automatically tried to stop him, but Sherlock raised his hand palm out, and John froze. He lowered it slowly, his hand ending in a fist that pressed into his thigh. His shoulders curled inward, and his head was low and angled away. When he spoke, it was without looking at him.

“I apologise, John,” he said and made his way to the door.

John’s mind reeled at this, and he was just able to resurface from the shock of his arrogant flatmate _apologising_ right as Sherlock began to grasp the handle. 

“Don’t – wait, Sherlock,” John said, and went over and grabbed his wrist. Sherlock still wouldn’t meet his eyes even as he led him back to sit on the edge of the bed. John stepped back and assessed him, unsure of what to do with his hands. He folded them across his chest. “Why?” It was all he could say at the moment. 

Sherlock’s eyes finally slid to his. They were still sharp, but now held a heaviness John had never seen before.

“Do you remember what you said to me that first night? After I asked you why you even cared?” 

“Yes. I said I didn’t want you doing this to yourself.”

“No, you said – you called me your friend.”

“Well you are. I’ve said as much.”

“Your only friend,” Sherlock emphasised. 

His eyes were like steel, a hardness creeping into them drawn in by the confusion that contorted his normally elegant features. He looked fierce, and yet utterly lost and hopeless at the same time. John realised what that conversation must have sounded like to Sherlock at the time. It was sentiment of a sort, and he disdained all forms of it, even though John had merely been stating a fact. After Afghanistan, he really didn’t have much in common with his old mates anymore and with the new found insanity of his life as of late, he was even more isolated from his peers. But now that he thought of it, it’s not like he minded. No not in the slightest. It was always Sherlock’s company he preferred in the end anyway.

“Well you are,” he said again. Sherlock just looked at him with a baffled expression. After a moment John added: “You’re my best friend, actually.”

At this Sherlock looked as if he’d been slapped. His mouth opened and closed a few times, and he swallowed around words that he was desperately trying to formulate. John was worried for a moment. It was rare the Sherlock was ever rendered speechless.

Finally, after closing his eyes to compose himself, he squared his shoulders and met John’s eyes dead on.

“Why? It is completely illogical and irrational even on your part to choose me to fit this role in your life.”

John just stared at him like he grew a second head. “Sorry? Are you...rejecting your 'position' as best friend? It's not a job offer, Sherlock.”

“Don't be obtuse. I’ve already expressed to you my incorrigible shortcomings, and have demonstrated them frequently and in earnest. I do not negotiate house work, I sometimes walk about in the nude, I verbally abuse you in front of everyone, I never buy the milk, and…I-I’ve put you in danger numerous amounts of times.” Sherlock’s eyes hollowed further if that was even possible, and John could swear he glimpsed the flicker of iridescent pool water, and flashes of red sniper light written on his face.

“Okay, look. You’ve never made me do anything I didn’t want to do. Where is this even coming from, Sherlock?”

“How can you possibly still be here after – after –? It doesn’t make any sense. It’s stupid…idiotic! _Why are you still here?_ ” Sherlock yelled, his frustration boiling over at his lack of being able to articulate. In his anger, he jumped to his feet only to have his knees buckle harshly, landing him back on the edge of the bed. He put his head in his hands, and John made an abortive gesture toward him but then stopped and waited. Then through the silence: “I don’t understand.” 

The voice that said this was so small and unsure it twisted something painful in John’s chest.

_Oh._

It made sense now. All of this… _destruction._ Why didn’t he recognise it sooner? After all, he’d done it himself over and over with his past relationships. The moment he realised he had something great, was also the moment he realised he actually let someone in. Which caused him to panic subconsciously, defaulting to sabotage. At least that’s what his therapist would say. Trust issues: it takes one to know one, apparently. He sighed, and kneeled in front of Sherlock, pulling away his hands so he could look at him.

“Listen to me. I’m here because I want to be here.” Sherlock arched an eyebrow entirely unconvinced. “Let me rephrase. I’m here because…because I _need_ to be here. I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“I’m sure you could get another flatshare…” Sherlock trailed off reading, and failing to make sense of what was written on John’s face. The frustration came back again and he said with a strained voice, “See this is what I’m talking about! Right there! I can’t tell what you’re thinking when you look like that. I’m not – I don’t understand emotion, John, and you just have so much of it _all the time,_ and it’s the one thing about you that I can’t pin down. 

“I can glance at a dead body and instantly know their life, and where they work, and who their lover is, but with you I can’t tell what it means when you look at me and your eyes are so dark they look brown even though they are blue. Or what it means when your hand starts to shake at certain crime scenes, and yet can be as solid as iron after you kill a man. Or why your shoulders tense and the corners of your mouth turn down when Donovan calls me ‘freak.’ And for God’s sake why you say the things that you do about …me. I just – why are you still here after all I’ve done?” He raked his fingers through his hair, and his cheek bones flushed with anxiety.

“You really want to know why I –” John’s voice caught and he had to clear it before he continued, his words raw and hushed. “I’m here because I have a gun, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock’s eyes collided with his with such force; he almost had to look away. He never admitted this to anyone before, not even his therapist, but he felt like he had to now, so he swallowed hard and pushed through the knot in his chest. 

“Before Baker Street…I kept it locked in the bureau so it wouldn’t be in reach right after I woke up screaming from a nightmare. When I couldn’t go back to sleep some nights, I would take it out and clean it. My hands never shook then, and I could feel myself being pulled further and further into the grey. 

“All of it was grey, Sherlock. The hospital, London, that miserable bedsit. And it was just so easy to think – to just – and then I ran into Stamford in the park and well…” he smiled slightly, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Nothing’s been grey since. So I don’t care what you do, but you can’t make me leave. You can’t make me go back to that again, Sherlock, no one can.”

Sherlock’s lips pressed into a thin line as he absorbed all of this. John felt as if his skin could burn under the weight of his gaze. He could practically see the pieces slotting in place as Sherlock came to a conclusion right in front of him. Finally, he jerked his chin down in a sharp nod. John nodded back, feeling self-conscious and exposed. They sat there for a moment, silently regarding one another, mutually grateful for what the other had given him. 

Then a smirk pulled at Sherlock’s lips as a thought occurred to him.

“I could always kick you out. After all I did ask you to move in first.”

“You arse! If you could call that asking.” John scoffed. “You can’t kick me out you’re not the landlord. And don’t think about talking to Mrs. Hudson. She likes me better anyhow.”

“That’s true. You’re more…cuddly than I am.”

“Cuddly?”

“It’s the jumpers.”

At this they burst out in full-throated, side busting laughter. They laughed so hard that tears streamed down John’s face, and Sherlock listed forward, still dizzy from the oleander which caused him to head butt John in the nose. Which brought on another bout of hysterics. They were still giggling when they both resumed their places back on the bed, Sherlock nestling into the pillows, obviously spent. John clicked off the light.

“It looks like you probably made it through the worst, so I’m just going to kip for a bit. Wake me if you need anything, but I’ll be up to check on you in a few hours.”

“Mm,” Sherlock responded in the dark.

John stretched out on top of the duvet, and his eyes drifted shut almost instantly. He vaguely heard Sherlock say something else, but he was already being dragged under by the current of sleep. Just before the darkness claimed him whole, he thought he felt the ghost of hand resting over his heart, rising in time with each deep breath.


End file.
